auld lang syne

Is it a looking-back? Or a looking-forward? Does the calendar turn if the Times Square ball doesn't drop? At the prick of midnight, the nadir of one year, the apex of the new, that is, the apex before the apex before the start. 00:00. 12:00. The exquisite edge, ultimate cliff, razor-tip Now, never to be repeated, never new again, but now in Now, of Now, for Now, is Now.

Midyuletidemonday

What should we call this interregnum of a day, this diurnal hiatus between years, between nativity and epiphany, birth and discovery, between darkness and satori, this timely peninsula of gray waiting, quotidian quiddity? 

Midyuletidemonday?

increasingly disappearing

oxymoron of love or whatever you call it Leonard Cohen called it room service to disappear increasingly meaning the apex of detachment the antithesis of attachment currying favor with the healthy self opposite the poisonous spice of obsequious pandering apposite the embrace of fullness of time other side of waning decrease withering wallowing Joyce is dead nobody does this crap anymore this fancy tapdance this diamond studded diversion increasingly disappearing into equanimity tempered balance buoyant serenity unfathomable steadiness floating oceans of oh-my-this  

'Eskimo Blue Day' True Day

. . . The human name
Doesn't mean shit to a tree . . .

 . . . But the human crowd
Doesn't mean shit to a tree . . .

. . . The human dream
Doesn't mean shit to a tree . . .
 
"Eskimo Blue Day," Jefferson Airplane
 Grace Slick, Paul Kantner 1969

Be careful there. What's that? Easy now. Careful. Watch out. What is that? That's sharp. Careful! You're gonna hurt someone. It's dangerous. What the hell are you doing? Stop! That hurts! Please. What did I ever do to you? Who do you think you are? Don't. I'm begging you. Stop! That's excruciating. I'm warning you. Pleading. Ouch. This is unbearable. You're killing me. Where do you get off . . . 

missing

I got off the bus at West Genesee and West Fayette. A young mother with a toddler and an infant in a stroller struggled to navigate the steps down onto the sidewalk. I let them go and did my best neither to feel nor exude impatience. I stepped onto the sidewalk buffeted by a blast of December wind. Something on the ancient, rutted utility pole caught my eye. What? A Missing Persons poster was stapled on two sides of the pole. I moved closer. There, to my shock and horror, was an unmistakable image of me, under large block letters spelling MISSING with an exclamation point (fortunately, only one instead of the customary three). Below that was a photo of me in my Icelandic sweater, bought in Reykjavik in January 2016. It happens to be one of my favorite self images. My older glasses are bolder, my hair is longer and less gray, and I sport a sexy smirk, or so I've been told. So thanks for that. Anchoring the bottom of the poster "$5,000 Reward" is offered. How is that amount calculated? Is it based on the poster's (as in "one who posts") resources or my putative value? My name is provided. It is spelled correctly, with no middle initial. No information regarding age, reason for missinghood, potential danger to self or others is offered. The only other data provided is that I was last seen at the Solvay Post Office. Last seen, wait for it, today. Today? Is somebody trying to tell me something and what is it? I shook this off, having lingered for who knows how long at the corner absorbing all this. I proceeded west on Fayette toward home. Every utility pole, all eight, had two missing posters stapled onto it. Just me. Nobody else. I kept walking. Evening was descending, as it does so early in December. I quickened my pace. I keenly looked left and right, searching for something or someone, I didn't know what. At the end of the block, I paused and looked in back of me, where I had just traversed. Nothing. I turned left onto Williams Street, toward my apartment building. I decided I would not enter by the main door, at the lobby with the mailboxes. I somehow felt safer entering by the seldom-used back door. As I walked down the six steps to the door, key fob in hand, i halted. Another one on the door. I could have turned away. Turned away to go where? I summoned either courage or foolhardiness, waved the fob, and entered. now my heart was racing. I was sweating. I walked up the stairs to the third floor. I gingerly, and as quietly as I could, strode to apartment 312. Another poster.

3 hardest words

I was wrong
you were right
we were wrong
they were right
I guessed wrong
thought I knew
had it figured
assumed it was
love or hate
hate or love
won't you try
try I did
we found out
maybe next time
no next time
time passes quickly
long story short
short story shorter
you and me
you and I
we three kings
you three queens
paper or plastic
not like that
is it real
is it over
I feel fine
stop right here

couldn't

tie my shoes
blow bubblegum bubbles
ride a bike
float
lose my virginity
or anyone else's
get sober
behave
not say it
say it
be celibate
stay married
remarry
divorce
stay divorced
lie

and then I could

merry merry merry

If I say "merry" and ask you what immediately comes to mind, I'd bet good money that "Christmas" would be your reply. Right? I can't think of many other constructions in English that are so consistently paired. (Paired. There's a term used ad nauseam.) Yeah, "happy" followed by "birthday." No others come to mind. Help me out. Is it the same with "joyeux noel" in French?

Why "merry"? It could have gone myriad other ways: happy, joyous, pleasing, blessed, fine, cheerful, glad, sweet, exciting, holy. Okay, not quite myriad. But you get the point.

"Merry" itself has a fascinating history and evolution. The wonderful ("wonderful" instead of "merry"; there's another one) Online Etymology Dictionary traces merry to "short duration," as in "time passes quickly; enjoy it now while it lasts." I like that Zen element thrown in there. Impermanence. Transitory. Have you ever heard a Christmas sermon focus on that angle? Neither have I. It'd be a rewarding hybrid of notions and traditions. (No, not me. I'll spare you my attempt at such a homily.)

Not surprisingly, "merry" also has seedier (see below for the innuendo) senses. The Online Etymology Dictionary cites "merry-bout -- an incident of sexual intercourse." Fun! Following the same line of carnal logic, or passion, "merry-begot" was a way of describing "illegitimate" or "bastard."

Merry, merry, merry Christmas, or anything else.

cold hard cash

The twenty they gave me had writing on it. The bank gave it to me. I didn't notice until an hour later, about to buy coffee.  You've seen this sort of thing. A phone number or a website. This had both. Normally I pay it no mind and use the bill as I would any other. Not this time. I transferred the twenty to my right pocket, the pocket reserved, superstitiously, for savings or safekeeping or temporary non-use. Later on, in the late afternoon, I texted the number on the bill, not knowing if it was a landline or a cell. I texted, "Hey there." I got no answer. I got no answer for weeks. In fact, I said what the hell and forgot about the whole thing. Out of the blue, I get a "hey there." I don't respond to numbers I don't know. Who was this? I soon realized it was a reply to my original message of same. Part of the same thread. 

Can I help you?
I don't need any help. Who are you?
Who are you?
Au contraire. 
Exactly.
What do you want?
Same as you.
Are you male or female?
What's it to you?
Where are you?
Same.
What does that mean?
How 'bout you?
Same.
Want to meet? Someplace neutral.
Beige.
Why should we?
I'm afraid.
Why did you do that?
Do what?
Write your number on the twenty.
What are you talking about? I didn't leave no number.
Any.
What?
Never mind.
Meet?
You crazy?
Course not. And if I am, what's that make you?
Crazier.
Right.
Left.
Don't text me again.
Me neither.
Same.
Same.

drop the mic fail

I do the perfect one-liner, the coup de grace, the quotable quote, the searing stanza, the erotic epitaph, the remember-me-by-this, a luxurious last hurrah, clarion coda, zinger deluxe, epic epigram, frame-worthy finale, embroidered ending, signature sign-off . . . 

the triumphant drop the mic . . . 

. . . and then stay on the stage
 

postcard from Oslo, 1973

A faded image of Akershus Castle, in Oslo, on the front. On the back, the part where people write their messages, my name appears, with a Salt Springs Road address below it. I last lived there in 1974. There are no discernible address forwardings to my current address (same city, opposite side of town), except for one Band-Aid-sized sticker with today's address affixed haphazardly and partially over the old address.

In rounded, florid cursive handwriting, likely from a fountain pen, the following message appears, in English, with several smudges and blurred letters:

"16 October 1973

Dear Paul,

Stop calling here, you drunken fool.

Love,

Marit"

I have never been to Oslo.

But I do know without a doubt who the sender is.

I met Marit in Salzburg, Austria, in July 1973. Or did I meet her on the train? I can't remember for sure. (Where is that journal I kept?) If the latter were true (the train version), how is it that I would reconnect with her in Salzburg and spend a companionable, and electrically charged, three or four days with her? Remember, we had no cellphones.

She insouciantly walked barefoot through the cathedral, sandals in one hand. I thought it was rude and scandalous of her -- which attracted me all the more.

We spent a languid and carnal afternoon in her rented room.

When I returned to the States, we exchanged letters. Her English was impeccable, better than that of the high school students I was teaching in America. She lived in Oslo. I tried to teach myself Norwegian. I read "Hunger" by Knut Hamsun, in English.

When I was drunk, which was often, I'd get the obsessive notion of calling her, when it was 5 or 6 a.m. in the morning where she was. I would anger her landlord by waking him, and her.... until one too many times and I finally stopped. Long-distance was so expensive, I easily could have flown to Norway instead. And what was it I had to say to her?

I was awful.

I must've thought I was in love with Marit, which was no excuse for such outrageous and revolting behavior. 

Is love ever a good excuse, for anything?

How did I get this postcard?

And what do I do now?

a coinage

During his morning walk, he spotted a wet penny on the black glistening pavement as he walked downhill on Lewis and Clark Street. Only a thin crescent of the penny glistened; the rest was darkened by time and decay. He picked it up. He walked a few more steps. A trove of pennies. And one dime, shiny in the damp. He bent to pick them up. Was anyone watching him in the snowy rain? He stooped and rose, stooped and rose. Is this embarrassing? Is this what old men do on their morning walks? Twenty filthy pennies and one dime. Filthy to the point of non-recognition except by shape, diameter, and thickness. Not texture; disgustingly dirtied. He left one penny on the pavement. A statement. A question. A tease. An invitation. Thirty cents. Home. Washed with dish detergent, to little avail; cleanser, same results. Rinse. No. not the steel wool. Rest them on a paper towel. Rinse with finger rubbing. Pick them up. Put them in the coin jar. Will the machine take them? Was it worth it? Why? Worth exactly what? What was the point?

post scriptum: Two days later, I returned to the scene of the dime (and pennies). The penny I had deliberately left remained on the ground. Truthfully, it was impossible to say, because scattered on the ground was a constellation of a dozen or so pennies. Which penny was the one I had decided to leave there, as a "message"? Impossible to say. More disturbing is this notion: did I not see that many other pennies on my first go-round? Either way, on this coin-incidence I kept walking. I had no inclination to stoop to conquer said artifacts. Who would do such a clumsy, doddering thing?

staples

At least it makes sense, the evolution from crude tele-phone, in two pieces or more, to rotary telephone to answering machine with phone to portable phone to smartphone. Progress. Technology. The same with desktops to laptops to tablets to "devices." That sort of thing.

But what about staples? I don't see that stunningly simple technology evolving. Evolve to what. Staples and stapling, and staple removal, work fine. Why improve it? So modern yet so retro.

Same with paper clips.

Ballpoint pens.

Envelopes.

Does any of this make any sense?

It's not a Luddite sermon.

Staples. They're so simple and practical.

They're here to stay as is; that's my guess.

different

We put in the new fridge.
When I was gone?
Everything should be all set.
Good. Thanks.
Let us know if you have any problems. The settings work. You should be okay now. Your freezer works, the bottom part, too.
Okay. Thanks again.
We'll see.
How's it working?
It was working fine. Just fine. Should be okay.
That's good. That's good. Glad to hear. Thanks again.

Hey, how's that fridge?
Oh. My new refrigerator.
Everything okay?
It seems to be all right. I put some water in a plastic container to see if it freezes. I did that for the top and the bottom. The freezer. And the regular, whatever you call that part. The refrigerator.
And?
Does what it's supposed to do. Freezer and nonfreezer. So far, so good.
Figured it would. Perfect.
There's one thing. Not exactly perfect. I almost don't want to mention it. It's . . . 
What's that? The temperature ain't right?
No, no, no.
What?
No, yeah. No, never mind.
C'mon, what?
It's nothing. Nothing really. It's . . . 
Tell me.
The doors.
Oh! That! Yes, we know they're on backwards.
It's not really backwards. I mean, the doors work and everything. They're just different. Now I have to open from the right side.
Give us a few days.
I can adjust. Really.
No problem. We'll fix it.
Well, it's not really broken. It's . . . 
We'll fix it.
You don't have to. I was going to make it a little challenge every day. I keep grabbing for the handle on the left side. I forget. But I'll learn.
Yeah, yeah. We'll fix that next week.
The doors are really perfectly fine. They're just different. Nothing's really wrong. I feel so silly.
We'll fix it. Hits the cabinets, right?
No. Not really.
We're gonna fix it. I'll call you next week.
It's just different.
Have a good day.
You, too.

Hymn to Heavy Metal

Crumpled metal as if sculpted. Dangling wires. Sagging wires with frayed skin connected to transformer. Weeds growing from cracks. Rust. Graffiti. "Hence False" on the nearby rolling freightcar. Fissures in skyscraping iron structures. Cogen plant. Dead. Unburied. Absence of steam, vapor, exhaust, particulate matter. Wind-rippling silence. Clarion call of afternoon sunlight. Solemn parade of dead turbines in the foreground. Failed saplings spawned in heavy metal. Groaning background freightcars. Hum of paper recycling plant to my back. Trucks delivering gypsum. Drooping sheet metal. Unround holes. Swallowing silence.

life as a #RubeGoldberg

You do not have to be a certain age to know what a Rube Goldberg is, or to understand those two words as an eponymous adjective. But it helps. Rube Goldberg was an artist and a cartoonist who comically depicted circuitous (sometimes literally), not-quite-labyrinthine, intricate ways to accomplish a ridiculously simple thing or to get from A to B. He was a Pulitzer Prize winner. I have a memory of his illustrations, but can't put my finger on how, maybe the comics in a Sunday newspaper. I distinctly remember my father often saying, "What a Rube Goldberg," just as he would refer to our junk closet as "Collyer brothers," or "It's like Collyers' in here," though I did not know anything of their real-life story.

Speaking of real life, the other day I slipped on ice as I went to unlock and enter my car. I dropped a book by Francine Prose (perfect name for a writer, eh? Try her!), which landed at my feet. The book was not damaged; it did not splay open and get wet from the ice. Within the book, right after cover 1, as we call it in publishing, I had tucked in a $320 check to be deposited, from a free-lance job. I purposely put it in the book so it would not get wet or damaged from the light snow. I picked up the book, inspected it for damage, and opened it. No check. Where was it? I was positive I had placed it within the book for safekeeping. I was 100% positive. The most irritating thing about such life riddles is the thought I am losing my mind or my memory, either of which is possible at my advanced age. Still, it frustrates me and pisses me off. It can be a totally unimportant object, a cheap pen or a useless note I wrote to myself or a dime. It's bothersome. I had that in the back of my mind. Did I not put the check in the book? I did. Stop right there. Where did it go? I looked in front of me, to my right, my left, and in back of me. Did the wind sweep it up and away and down the block right before my eyes? Had I signed it? Oh boy. I looked and relooked. My theory has always been: look everywhere you have looked and then do it again but slowly. No luck. Down on my knees in the cold wet. Look under the car, at the undercarriage, beyond the perimeter of the chassis, around the tires. The tires! What is that leaning against the inside of the right-front tire? Could it be? Indeed. Yoikes. I scurry to the other side of the vehicle and gently extricate the fragilely leaning check, as gently as an artisan restoring a DaVinci fresco. 

What a Rube Goldberg. Not exactly. Much simpler than the known pattern of a Rube Goldberg. It was conceivable, though, that the lofted check could have gone from its cozy berth near the tire and somehow up and under the hood and somehow wedged between the radiator and the grill. Never to be found. 

Yes, I exaggerate. But things happen.

What about on a personal level? You know the bit. "She said to me, and then he said, but after that I told them, and before you know it they posted on Facebook, and I repeated, then she and he posted, and then they said, then they were not talking to me for the rest of my life."

That sort of thing.

A freaking Rube Goldberg of human proportions.
 

love to laugh

Many, if not most, online dating profiles list "love to laugh" or some equivalent as a personality trait that exists in the Profiler or is desired in a mate or date. They want someone with "a sense of humor" as if what they most need in life is a personal stand-up valet, delivering one-liners and bons mots, absolving one of sadness like a priest absolving sins. I have no idea whether one gender tilts more in this direction than another. Love to laugh. Try saying "love to cry," which may be more common as well as more useful. And possibly more honest. (How do I know these things?) But nobody is asking for a clown. Too scary. I don't want to belabor the obvious, but who doesn't love to laugh? Boy, putting that down really separates you from the masses. As for sense of humor, isn't that just lazy? Do you want the Fool, the Court Jester, to wave his stick, his marotte, if you want the right word, the mot juste, before you all day? How tiring. Don't you need to put some effort into it? Try being tickled. No one says "love being tickled" (pink or otherwise). Besides, tickling comes off as more aggressive than affectionate. Barely laughable. And what if you're not ticklish? No wonder you love to laugh. Need to laugh.

ghost town

I'll get back to you
Text me
Call me
No reply (Beatles song)
The sounds of silence (Simon & Garfunkel)
wyd
What's up
Hey you
Hey there
'Sup
Nothing said
Null set
Crickets
But they said they'd...
Lost my contacts
new phone, who dis
But he said that
Zero-sum game
Ghosted me
But she said that
Ghosted
I'll get back to ya
I was drying my hair
My dog died
Do you believe in ghosts
Did you get my text
Blocked
Disappeared
Pristine
clean slate
call security
can you hear me now
How about now
They said I made the short list
She promised
I was supposed to get a callback
Can you hear me
He promised
Not even crickets
What happened
They promised
Whatever
Dead air
Still waiting
on hold
 

fiery words

With large loft windows facing west, the afternoon-into-evening sun, wintry rare in these climes, blares. All but shouts. A clarion charge of lambent light, never failing to lift the indoor temps a degree or two. Healthy for the orchid, bonsai ficus, and cacti on the kitchen-dining room peninsular counter, beside the Compact Edition of the Oxford English Dictionary, volume 1 of 2, open to the C's, the handy reader's magnifying glass resting on the cleavage of open pages. Sprawled on the couch, I am reading The New Yorker, on the cusp of a nap, hindered by the lambent intrusion; too drowsy to get up and pull the blinds down. Eyelids fluttering, flickering: the first frames of a silent movie. Sparrows, crows across the street, distantly bickering. Alone in the hull of a huge ship, flooding, like the Titanic but battleship steel, and yet the aristocratic balustrades and chandeliers of opulence. That dream again. No one but me. The Atlantic cascading down the stairs. My shouts, my cries. To whom? To what? My chattering teeth. The molten ice enveloping my veins. Please. Can you hear me? Can someone hear me? I can't swim. Too late. Sinking. No one. What is that? What. Where. What. Wisp of warmth. Dust. Rescue? Smoke? Attempt to scroll eyelids up. Turn head left, right. Scroll up. Eyes cloudy. Force open, wide-eyed. Wisps of white floating from the open OED. Vatican puffs of papal decision. Jolt. I jump. Dart to the counter. First tongues of flame. Memories of tissue paper, August heat, Sherlock Holmes magnifying glass in the backyard. Presto, no matches. Boyish danger. The word, you ask. Which word? Chagrin. The noun. Then the verb. Chagrin.  

scratching the surface

  
A scratch. To satisfy an itch, not a seven-year itch, barely seven hours. And that's the problem: barely. Scratch it. Again. Out of self-curiosity, let the left hand wander south, posterior. Explore the source. What source. The evidence: a line of five or six inches on bare-ass skin. Corrugated. Crust. Dried blood. From whence. Who did this. When. In sleep. So brazen. So surprising. Rude. Not deep like a razor cut but noticeable. An intrusion. So tidy and straight. Who how when why. Mystery. Carnal drama. Whodunit.
 

fridge

I opened the door. The light came on, porcelain bright. I blinked. Blinked again. Bare shelves. Naked racks. Nothing on the door. Nothing in the crisper or plastic sliding bins on the bottom. A minimalist's dream. How about the freezer? Same. Not even ice. Yesterday was different. Milk, butter, deli sliced roast beef and turkey, mayo, ketchup, mustard, apple juice, lettuce, string beans, cherries, rice pudding, whipped cream in a can (expired), skyr yogurt (raspberry, strawberry, mixed berries with acai, vanilla), half and half, fresh gazpacho given to me as leftovers from the party, thawing chicken cutlets, carrots, Pepsi (the small cans), Pellegrino carbonated water. That's all I can remember. It was only yesterday, but that's the best I can do. The freezer? French vanilla ice cream (mostly gone; freezer burn crystals), marinated chicken cutlets, chicken wings, ice packs, ice cubes, soup, mixed vegetables, Indian food for one, hamburger patties, buttered corn. All frozen solid.

That's the best I can recall. It wasn't much, I admit. But gone. Disappeared.

All of it.

Where'd it all go?

Who took it and what did they do with it, and why?

Things just don't disappear, don't flee to another dimension, despite the standard jokes about socks missing from the dryer. That's funny. This isn't.

I feel violated.

No one has a key, as far as I can tell. She gave me her keys back. Finally. I made her. I have them on my bureau. She too. I made her return them. They're in the drawer. Maintenance? I asked. The office downstairs? They said no, of course not, clearly insulted. 

Could she, or her, have secretly made duplicate keys? Easily. I could have done the same. That's too easy a plot line. Too facile. Obvious. I don't buy it. Not because of intuition or intentional blindness, but because a) they would be easy targets as suspects b) the cameras; the cameras would show them (more on that later c) why now? why now after all these years? d) we were on such good terms, unless it was a charade, a facade e) if she, or her, were to stealthily intrude now, to what good? Cui bono, as they say in Latin

If it was her, or her, what was the trigger? And why this and not the money in the envelope for all the world to see, left untouched because I had it boobytrapped?

Someone, singular or plural, did this. I don't mean aliens. Someone.

Not as a joke. Some joke, eh? No, as a subtle and sophisticated mindfuck. I take that back, not so subtle. No note. No message smeared in lipstick on a mirror. No fingerprints, I suppose. What's the difference? You think the police are going to dust my fucking refrigerator for prints? Really. Because my fridge is empty? Emptiness was my default until a few weeks ago. (There's an aphorism for you.) I'd resolved to eat better, cook for myself, be healthier, save money.

Him? Him, you say? I can't see it. Talk about a flash from the past, the past before the past. He was a bully then, and might be now, but what would be the point? What would be the gain? If anything, it should be reversed. I should be stalking him and performing some intricate, elaborate indecipherable mindfuck scheme.

Here's what bothers me. There's nothing on the cameras, nothing in the lobby or in the hallway or by my door. Nothing. I sat in the office for 4 hours, winding, rewinding, stopping, freezing, and slo-moing. Nothing. Explain that.

Them. Them, you say? Impossible. They were only in my class for one semester, and then they went their separate ways, as disparate as dandelion seeds parachuted from seedheads into the whipping wind in a dozen directions.  

You. You. I thought of you first. You knew I would. That's pretty clever, if it was you. I could almost laugh. Almost. If it was you, I'm dying to know how you tricked the cameras. Hack the system and photoshop the footage? Not you, unless you got some professional help. From him.

Don't worry.

I have your keys.

Keep an eye on your toothbrush.
 

Prayer for a Palimpsest

O Goddess-God-Supreme Being-Cosmic Energy-Eternal Now-Silence:

Grant me, if it be your will, the selective amnesia of serenity, a magic slate of erased pain, a scraping away of the ragged scars of burnt memory from the parchment of remembrance. Vouchsafe to grant your servant a palimpsest of the mind, an electroconvulsive therapy (formerly known as electroshock therapy) without the electricity, if you don't mind. May it please you to wipe my slate clean, revealing a fresh layer in this palimpsest brain, enabling me motion: to reverse course, look away, move forward. While you're at it, gift me, please, with ablution and absolution, permitting a fresh and clean restart, a do-over. Ah, but you caution me against this? You tell me that every moment affords an opportunity for me myself to do this very thing. You remind me that the memory of pain can be a useful motivator, a shield against desolate repetition. In fact, you warn me of the mortal dangers of such palimpsestic thinking and feeling (and after all, is there a difference between the two?). So now I am confused. I am baffled. Puzzled and stumped. I see where oblivion has taken me, its tides tossing me wayward. Yet the burden of memory (no, pardon me; I didn't say guilt) is an anchor tied to my ankle. You decide. Yes, you decide in all your Silent Wisdom. You decide what to grant. But let me know when you have an answer. And give me the strength to abide by its commands. Amen.   

layers of licentious lying (LOLL)

They said they're a pathological liar. They readily and proudly admitted it. Your first thought might be, what if that confession is itself a lie? Don't go there. You'll get all twisted. And don't bother splitting semantic or nosological hairs about pathological versus sociopathic versus narcissistic versus compulsive liars. Don't waste your time. She lies. He lies. They lie. They lie when the truth would serve them better. They lie under oath or over a dime. Don't bother debating or seeking to uncover the truth or confronting with evidence. None of that matters. And don't expect remorse. Why would they have remorse about lying? It's always been the way. Would a fish feel remorse for swimming in water? 

We're not talking about the innocuous social nicetie or lapse of etiquette, such as complimenting you on your hair when they hate its color and style. We're talking about where you were, when you left, what you said, whom you love, whom you hate, how much you made, how much you spent, who did what at work, how much you drank, how much you snorted or shot, how much you smoked, what you believe, what you think, what you feel. 

We have lost interest in the subtle shades of the chameleon. We don't care anymore that you do not flinch when you lie any more than when you supposedly tell the truth. Where and how is the infrastructure for this built? Who designs it? Genes or behavior or will? 

Winston Churchill said, "In wartime, truth is so precious that she should be attended by a bodyguard of lies." During World War II, the Allies devised an intricate and ingenious web of deception and charades to fool the Germans about the timing and location of the D-Day invasion.

You yourself are the bodyguard of your own lies. For what invasion? For what surrender? What victory? 

Call it Ganser syndrome, selective amnesia, pseudologia fantastica, histrionics, exaggeration, confabulation, or delusional fantasy.

Or call it lies.

hashtag hash

I was challenged to describe my day in a hashtag. Before you smirk and brush off this exercise, consider: Do I describe my day realistically, ironically, science-fictionally, interpersonally, solitarily, monetarily, spiritually, figuratively, or so-on-ally? You get the picture. It's not as easy as it first appears. Another factor to weigh is at what point in the day this is composed. If you it upon first awaking, that's almost cheating. Yet only a literalist would wait until the end of the day, when sleep might be intruding. And would a hashtag describing your day, say at noon, be an influencer on the day's remains?

One ridiculous, and unfair, way to accomplish this feat would be to write a hashtag consisting of many words, forming a quasi-sentence or a lengthy sentence (grammar note: most people don't realize that a run-on sentence has nothing to do with the number of words; it's a punctuation error). Why bother using a hashtag. It's phony. This made me research rules and protocols concerning such matters. I learned that the hashtag was invented by Chris Messina in 2007. But I couldn't see anything other than etiquette and common sense dictating how many characters are allowed in a hashtag.

#uneventful

As you can see, you don't want to be so generic as to leave readers in the dark. Also, from a purist standpoint, I will self-impose the rule that describing my day in a hashtag has to be a one-word affair.

#fair

Again, #fair and #uneventful couldn't be more gray, leaving you in the dark. Fair? Really. Is this a weather report? Please.

#etymological

At least that's specific. It says something. But it's a lie. I did receive my two-volume compact Edition of the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) today, but I can't say I plunged into it.

#introspective

Not bad. True enough but not for all portions of the day.

#solipsistic

Too harsh. Too much hyperbole.

#grateful

Can't ever go wrong with that, but it's not specific, doesn't paint a picture.

#verbose

No doubt, though that could be any day.

#curious

Clearly not the best choice, yet not the worst. I'll stop here.

#I_tried
 

found objects

Future Present Participle. Who knew? Who knew the Boys From Liverpool were so prescient? Found in an attic of Jane Asher's great-aunt, this collection of previously unknown (except for the Beatles themselves and George Martin) songs touches on themes and issues that were barely percolating in the Sixties. The offering, however, is more than an archival collection for Beatles enthusiasts. The album features ten never-heard-before compositions dating from 1964 to 1968. Asher, a former girlfriend of Paul McCartney, had no comment on the shocking event, though the LP was released under her Ashe(r) Wednesday label. "And I Loved Him," the first track, is a tender farewell ballad to Brian Epstein, the Fab Four's manager. "He Loves Me" is a raucous garage-band-sounding outright declaration of Lennon-McCartney mutual affection. "We Can't Work It Out" acidly recounts a bitter break-up, likely referring to Asher and McCartney. "Rainbow Submarine" would have been revolutionary in its time as it celebrates gender, racial, and ethnic diversity. The whimsical "Octopus's Living Room" showcases Ringo Starr's talents for children's songs, foreshadowing his Mr. Conductor role in the Shining Time Station series for kids. A polar opposite of the hit "I Feel Fine, "I Feel Fucked" uncharacteristically portrays George Harrison in a sour and vindictive mood. "Number 6 Times 6 Times 6," obviously an outtake from The White Album, denotes surrealist nihilism in its constant repetitions of six, evoking sinister demonic references. "I Want to Hold Your Gland," clearly never intended for public exposure, features Lennon and McCartney at their Joycean silliest. The origins or intention of several tracks will give critics and fans grist for the rumor mills for years to come. For example, "He's a Woman" prefigures and boldly explores gender roles and previews themes only hinted at in "Get Back." The final track of Future Present Participle, "Can Buy Me Love," is a self-satirizing parody that predicts the group's breakup. Here's your ticket to ride for a magical mystery tour simultaneously into the past and the future. The answer is in the journey. 

double identity indemnity

Hey, aren't you . . . ?
No, yeah, no. Wait. Aren't you . . . ?
Who? I don't think so. I'm . . . 
Aren't you what's-his-name . . . ?
Heh, heh, anybody can be what's-his-name.
Huh huh, got you.
Like I said, I'm . . . 
Yeah, right. You look just like him. You know, he . . . 
I guess you're right. I do look like him.
Totally.
It's been a while, hasn't it.
It has. Truly.
You're good?
I'm good. You?
Been better.
What's wrong?
Nothing's wrong. The regular stuff.
The regular stuff.
Yeah, you know.
Yeah. But you can tell me. After all we've been through.
After all we've been through.
It's nothing.
Come on.
Naw, it's nothing.
I can tell it's something.
A minute ago you were acting like you hardly knew me.
Me? No way.
Yes. Remember?
Yeah, no. I don't know. Maybe. Whatever.
It'll pass.
What will?
It's nothing. Like I said.
I get it.
Yeah.
Hey, I gotta get uptown. I'll hit you up later.
Yeah. Me too. Yeah. Hit me up later.
Yeah.
Sounds good.
Shrill screech of subway brakes as train pulls in to station.

biopsy epiphany

I expected the worst. I'm not even referring to the results. Worst, as in bend over to be probed, inserted, navigated, manhandled. A conjured image of discomfort, humiliation, breathe-through-it pain, tension, and fear. I was given a needle in each butt cheek: an antibiotic as a preventive measure. The left needle was barely felt; the right one hurt. I was escorted to the room for the euphemistically called procedure. Lie on your left side, facing the wall. So that was better than the on-your-elbows position I had pictured. Plus, they "numbed me up" down there. Another aspect better than I had envisioned. (In 2002, I was not given an anesthetic.) Before you know it, during my rambling dialogue with the doctor, they're in there. Ultrasound images on a screen. Colorful computer simulations, like you see in the movies. Numeric designations on the screens. To the left, or the right, up or down, closer or farther. Lunar landscape. Gentle landing. Inner clenchings like staplings but duller, internal pings -- except for one of twenty, not painful, more like an annoyance, a tangible split-second thump within-the-inner-of-the-inner inwardness. To harpoon and retrieve the tissue samples. The conversation and the screens distractions. The doctor said I'd probably want to watch. I said I rarely do, such as during a colonoscopy, which I wouldn't remember anyway because of the Versed anesthesia. He said, oh, you'll watch. And I did. An observer of my innermost self, physically. Not afraid or anxious. Almost amused. A detachment as if it were somebody else being represented up there on the screens. A curiosity, an observation, an objective assessment. Oh, that. Watching some kind of sci fi episode, without the popcorn. A metaphysical shrug of the shoulders.

Would that such detachment were granted to me for any day's probings, any day's pricks and prods, any day's pleasures or pains.

dis-ease

Consider: disease

dis-, as in lack of, not, opposite of, apart, away, asunder, in a different direction, as in two, twice, two different ways, twain, between.

ease, as in mitigate, alleviate, relieve from pain or care, render less difficult, relax one's efforts (including 1863 to 1907, a more specific sense in sailing), to content a woman sexually (slang, 1861), physical comfort, undisturbed state of the body, tranquility, peace of mind, pleasure, well-being, opportunity. Compare adagio. Cf. at ease as a military order denoting freedom from stiffness or formality.

These from the Online Etymology Dictionary. 

Put the two together.

Dis-ease.

Read the above all over again. 

No, I'm not going to walk you through it. I'm not going to sermonize on what breaking down the two word parts means separately or together, or what marrying them conjures up and gives birth to. You can do that yourself.

It's revealing, isn't it?

But, still, add to the mix not at home in the world, nor in your skin, your psyche, nor in your bones.

The etymological and existential tension (infinitely tender and fragile; unspeakably personal) between cling and let go, grasp and avert, indulge and refrain, partake and repel, pause and pirouette, explore and perish.

Why is that?

So much depends. (William Carlos Williams, "The Red Wheelbarrow")

So if you have only a thin wire,
God does not mind.
He will enter your hands
as easily as ten cents used to
bring forth a Coke. (Anne Sexton, "Small Wire") 

the static

like, you know; turn the dials on the Hallicrafters short-wave radio like safecrackers; dive bombers; know what I'm sayin; shrill metallic blast; gurgling high-pitched twirling; ya know; crackling hum; intergalactic buzzsaw; in my opinion; galvanic thrumming; Radio Moscow; I know, right; shockwave echoing; lol; electronic pulsating stammering; shrill feedback; ear-splitting waterfallish avalanche; Vatican Radio; yeah, no; tin stuttering; galloping burping; infinite clanging; Radio Nederland Hilversum; LOL; yeah, no, I know, right; BBC World Service; wave-rippling cool giggling trickle; broken-muffler mauling; know what I mean; sandy sandpaperish sifting; harsh endless high-volume whispering; like; right  

the silence

If silence is golden. Speaks volumes. The chime before meditation. And after. And in-between. The silence of the lambs. Bleating. The silence of no lambs bleating. The silence of no iambs, pentameter or otherwise. The echoic silence after the 3-foot-diameter steel gong is gonged. The eloquence of the words not said, the argument not posited, the point not made, the victory not sought. The power of the pause, the well, the hollow, the vapor, the sky. The weight of it. The invincible juggernaut weight of big fat, divine Unspokenness rolling down the avenue for the Krishna festival, devotees throwing themselves before the wheels to be crushed in sacrifice. That kind of obeisance to silence. The silence more than absence of words or sounds. The white space of silence. The anvil of it. The cartoon bank safe falling onto the sidewalk from the skyscraper of it. The where did it come from and where does it go silence. The ringing in your ear silence that screams. And the silence after that.  

the fountain

I sat there on a wooden bench with iron railings at dusk. Golden September evening. Smoking a cigar and nursing a coffee from the shop across the street, I found myself staring at the fountain in the square. The endless trickling. The silent journey, unseen, of the water upwards, to the pinnacle spout, after which it trickles down in stages, filling black wrought-iron bowl- or plate-like platforms that fill and spill until the tricklings reach the pool at the bottom. And then repeat it, seemingly forever. It hypnotized me, mesmerized might be a synonym. But neither says it. Some kind of serene spellbound. The fountain so eternal in quotes but eternal enough for me right then. Is this why Rome is The Eternal City, because of so many eternal fountains? It reminds me of an old joke, the one about a search for the meaning of life with the guru delivering the punchline, "You mean it's not a fountain?" The joke was on us. Life as a punchline that nobody gets. The fountain tableau transported me to wonder: for how long have humans built fountains and how did they work before electricity was supplied? (Something I refuse to research. Why spoil the fun?) You'd think water fountains prove there is such a thing as a perpetual motion machine. Except. Except for water running out. And time running out in trickles like the fountain drippings. Naturally, even the fountains found in the wild, the ones we call waterfalls, are subject to the same rules of supply and impermanence. But enough of all that. The perfect light. (It was magical enough for four sets of professional photographers to stage and pose families, couples, and individuals for photos to be treasured on a wall until someone moves, storing the photos into an eternal anonymity in a box in a storage bin.) I snapped (screen-tapped) three photos on my phone, which is cheating for a wordsmith, isn't it. A magical hour magical enough for the golden retriever to want with all its canine desire to leap into that reflecting pool, only to be restrained by a tug on the leash. So, if I were in Italy and this were in a piazza it would be more worthy of memory and reflection? Who says. I rubbed the ash off the tip of the cigar against the bench, letting the ash fall to the brick pavers, careful to note no fire was possible. Earlier, I had placed the wooden match I had used to light the cigar and put it in the sink of the patina-painted inoperable water fountain nearby. Now that the lighted match was sufficiently cooled, I tossed it into the bed of ivy, where it landed in the dirt.   

lottery

Luther couldn't believe his eyes. Or his ears. He checked the six Powerball numbers again and again. He checked his Powerball numbers, the five for the white balls, 1 to 69, and one red Powerball, 1 to 26. He held the play slip in one hand, and the ticket in the other. Both hands were trembling. One $2 wager. He hadn't played Powerball, or any state lottos for seven years. Seven years, three months, and five days, if anybody's counting. He hadn't bought any scratchies either, or Cash For Life, Take Five, any of that. No football parleys. He'd been "clean and sober," as his Gamblers Anonymous confederates might describe it. 15, 20, 40, 48, 52, and 16, if you must know. Power Play 10x. Luther wrote the numbers on an index card. He pulled up the website and recited the numbers on the screen. He read the matching numbers on the index card. He said those out loud too. Deep down, he knew he had these numbers memorized; they could not be pried from his consciousness, subconsciousness, or memory. Numerical amnesia would be impossible. Now his hands were shaking and he was sweating, his forehead and underarms were perspiring.

Should I call someone? Who? What would I say?

The Grand Prize times ten would be so incalculably astronomical as to be unfathomable.

Don't go there.

You should call someone, anyone. Dad. Louise, Barbara, Ethan, Evelyn, Camille, Katharine. Sponsor. Sponsee. No, not text. Of course not.

Luther began to compose a resignation letter in his head. Dear Board of Directors, Dear Chairman of the Board, Dear Suckers, Dear Fuckers. Dear Cocksuckers, Hey you, Yo, To Whom It May Concern, Dear Torquemada.

He went to his laptop and typed the numbers in a Word file. Then he went to the website again and managed to copy the winning numbers and paste them into the Word file. They still matched.

Was this flutter the AFib he was warned about nine years ago? It had never bothered him in the least all these years. Why would it. The cardiologist said, One valve or chamber was mildly "generous" in comparison to the others. He hadn't understood the doctor in the least, but he never forgot the intriguing application of generous.

He began to pace in his studio apartment. Apartment pacing was not going to work. Even though it was nearing midnight, he put his coat on and stepped into the blowing snow and frigid cold. And walked.

As he trudged up Harborview Way, he fumbled in his right pocket for the ticket. Once he located it by touch, he fingered it, rubbed it like a talisman.

Nearing the crest of the hill, Luther slid on a patch of ice under the snow and he went sprawling, spread-eagled as if he were trying to create a snow angel. As he tried to brace himself, his hands shot out from his pockets, including his right hand, which had been caressing the lottery ticket.

In the ensuing mayhem, he lost his grip on the ticket, in a nanosecond his hand opened up. Before he was barely conscious of what had just transpired, the ticket got swept up in a snowy gust. The little slip of paper with 15, 20, 40, 48, 52, 16 got swept away. Caught in an eddy of air, not visible in the night.

Luther screamed. He cried. He shouted. He wailed.

He bolted toward the snowy gust. And he fell again.

He ran toward it, and then bent to the ground. He sifted through the snow, any snow, like a gold Rush Forty Niner.

Hundreds of millions of dollars.

They found him on all fours, frozen against an embankment.

A yard to his left, in the glistening sunlight, the winning ticket fluttered, a paper butterfly, out of season, on the powdery snow.

The winning numbers that Luther had memorized were for the wrong week, the week before.
 

anonymous

Literally without a name. Or without a literal name. How about a metaphorical name. Nameless. Not "name known but unspoken." No, not that. No name at all. Was there ever a name. Was a prior name shorn and shucked, offering a new self. Or was the anonymity there from birth. Did the anonymity serve as a blank canvas to paint on, to create an identity, a self. Dead to me. They say this or that one is "dead to me." A phrase nurturing either resentment or detachment. Take your pick. But who are "you"? Who is "me"? The power of anonymity. What exactly is that power. The unheralded secret, random kindness. The so-called selfless act that is never truly selfless despite what they say. Who are "they"? Anonymity as a shield, a shelter. Anonymity as a brandishing (surely not a brand name). "Anonymous" being the author. "Anonymous" being the donor. Handy for purposes of humility. Purposeful for adoptions. Anonymous the voyeur. Anonymous the spy. Anonymous the unknowable divinity, the unspeakable divine, as the ancient chosen tribe resorted to an acronym rather than utter the Sacred Name of No Name. That power of anonymity. Protector. Refuge. Savior. No name. Before name. Beyond name. Beyond noun or pronoun. Beyond adjective.

Just verb.

runaway

He ran away from home. Although we were a real city, with 37,000 people, it made the papers. We were in fourth grade. It was 1961, ironically the same year as "Runaway," the hit by Del Shannon. We weren't close friends, but close enough that I went over to his house once, over in the projects. His projects, not ours. What did we do? We went upstairs to his room and looked at his shoebox of baseball cards. No brothers or sisters. Just his mom and him. His mom yelled at him. He hadn't done some sort of chore. Dishes? Laundry? Make his bed? It didn't matter. You could tell she just liked to yell at him. She was making some kind of point, as if to say, This is how we do things around here, kid (me). Don't try to get smart with me. She smoked Camels. But the part I wanted to forget, the thing I didn't want to remember, was the walls. The walls in the hallway were black. At the bottom of the stairs, the hallway that greeted visitors, if ever there was another visitor, was smudged as if charcoal was rubbed over the institutional yellow paint. I imagine he and his mom braced themselves if they came down the stairs too hard and pivoted left to the kitchen or right to the living room. Or the wall was a casual pushing-off point, a way to launch oneself up the stairs. Or they leaned against the wall to put on or take off their shoes or boots. I don't know. I was thunderstruck. I almost blurted out, What's that? Where did that come from? I, who came from an apartment on the other end of the cleaning spectrum. Today people would use the OCD label, but it was just the way it went, the way we were. Saturdays were consumed with my brothers and I sweeping, vacuuming, washing, waxing, scrubbing, vacuuming again to meet Dad's white-glove inspection Army standards. We hated it. But this. The walls. The outer fringes of the wall beyond the opposite steps had handprints, vestigial symbols of origin. These marginal imprints left no doubt as to the source of the fully darkened portion. Hands. I didn't know how to respond. I didn't go home and tell anyone. Who was there to tell? And what was there to say? 

He was gone a few days. There was no manhunt, no panic, no search, but it was on the radio and in the papers. They covered the story as if it were an entertainment, a curious amusement, rather than a dangerous incident. They were flippant. And kids in our class? Nobody said much of anything. Some crude jokes, wisecracks, about his riding a freight train like a hobo. This came from some of the boys, and the girls shushed them. Mrs. Anastasia never said a word. Open your books. Practice your penmanship.

He came back. 

He came back to school on a Monday.

Nobody asked him where he had gone or how, nobody asked him what he did, or why. We didn't greet him or welcome him back. He just sat in his regular chair at his regular, assigned desk, in the second row from the window.

When Mrs. Anastasia read the roll, to which we were to say "present," she got to his name near the end, because of the letter his last name began with.

She got to his name and he didn't say anything.

He was crying; he had been crying all the while.

She went on to the next two names.

"Present."

"Present."
 

The Lockness Monster

You press the button on the fob. The nearly inaudible click. Press again the button with the closed padlock symbol. The horn bleep. Do it again, neurotically, the way you do, the way so many of us do. Undo it. Second thought. The driver's door gets unlocked. Click again to unlock all four doors. Third thought. Lock? The rapid-fire calculation of risk, safety, security, fear, privilege, race, poverty, wealth, bias, tree limbs, mice, rats, cardinals, sparrows, finches, crows, history, memory, future. Keep unlocked. After all, the car will be in view from where you sit. Plus, what is there to take? You have your laptop with you, which you prize more than the car, a 2016 sedan. They (who are "they"? why assume plurality? who are these contrived and conjured bogeymen from your primordial Freudian-Hegelian-Jungian dream swamp?) are welcome to the 15 or 20 returnable cans and bottles for 5 cents each. He or she or it or they can have the straw fedora sitting in the back seat, if that's what they really want. They can wear it proudly and defiantly. You will nod at them knowingly as you stroll by each other on the Parisian boulevard at midnight. Go ahead, from the so-called glovebox without gloves take the napkins, straws, CDs, condoms (unused naturally), chewing gum, chewing gum wrappers, wrench, Narcan, antacid tablets, cough drops, tampons (unused naturally), tire-pressure gauge, sanitary napkins, compass, torchlike flashlight, toothbrush, Geiger counter, gas mask, mouthwash, and her spare keys from 2016. Have at it. Have at them. Have them. You prefer that they leave the registration and insurance documents for two reasons: you'll need them; and doing so preserves the illusion that your identity has not been compromised by this intrusion. And is it an intrusion after all if the doors were unlocked? Will their defense attorney turn it around and claim your unlockedness was an invitation to browse, forage, and take? What defense attorney? No one would bother to investigate such an unheralded and low-grade transfer of goods. 

You drive home. You park in the camera-monitored private parking lot.

You press the fob twice to lock all four doors. You do it again to hear the confirmatory beep. 

texting one two three

the text text texts Scripture scripture stuttering writing the writing the word words wording string of semantic syllables passage extract narrative pretext context line lines nonverbal unspoken legible utterance utterances legible illegible indefinable posit of posing etymological energy of imprecise embedded thought would be thought inked inkling of linked intuition articulation you say text synonymous anonymous musing musings musingification beyond deeper than hermeneutics semiotics sunny cloudy composition in the infinite cloud unlouded texture texting fabricated text the text tyranny of term terminal terminology text textual silence nothing no-thing  
 

skinship

She is Japanese but was in Paris. She is Japanese and speaks some French and some English. In a note to me, she used the word "skinship." We were talking about loneliness. The need for human contact. The need for human touch. When children are undernourished and underweight, not growing according to accepted benchmarks, pediatricians talk of "failure to thrive." Many factors are typically at play. Might emotional starvation via lack of touch be a candidate for causality?

How about adults and their failure to thrive? Many factors are typically at play. The presence of absence. The absence of touch. Skin on skin. Skin to skin.

Skinship.

At first, I thought she had coined this portmanteau word herself by a lovely accident owing to language hybrids and differences. I had thought she had stumbled upon it unconsciously. She said, no, it's a thing; it's a term in Japan; a mash-up of two languages that catches on. Nevertheless, I was arrested, taken by the word and what it evoked, in me. I was, and am, excited by the possibilities the word incites.

Skinship.

Is it the kinship of those who possess skin, or of those who indulge in skinness, in subtle skin-drenched tactility, ("I couldn't feel, so I learned to touch..." Leonard Cohen), or is it the kinship of those parched from touchlessness, arid and brittle, perhaps the kinship of those who ache for skin kinship but have lost the thread of emotional genealogy? Is it a skinny vessel sailing to unseen horizons, a ship with no cargo except the heavy burden of empty skinship?

We don't know.

Reports are sketchy.

Rumors abound.

The Premier President Prince of Skindinavia will be making an official statement on these matters presently.
 

those were the days

Remember when we all had "devices"? We stood in elevators, paused on sidewalks, stole looks while driving; we peeked at illuminated screens that gave off a glow. Even in bed, we furtively glanced at our electronic alter egos, sometimes while barely awake or while sleepwalking. Our thumbs danced on touch-sensitive keyboards. Some of us exercised magical powers by tapping unseen keys accurately, while we performed other tasks (called multitasking), to send messages to friends or relatives or business associates, or to virtual strangers. Others of us, typically older, relied on index fingers to tap what were called "texts" slowly, one letter at a time, often punctuated by cartoonish colored symbols we called emojis. The screens would demarcate receiver and sender by variably colored panels with messages ("threads") displayed, and stored, if one so chose. Something called "social media" was another source of communication. 

Do you recall any of this? Does it ring a bell? Does a vibrating hum in your brain trigger a memory? 

These communications ranged from the profound to the superficial; from the mundane to the sublime; addressing the full range of human activities and emotions. 

Does any of this whatsoever jog your memory? Nearly everybody was in the game, young and old, rich and poor. The incarcerated, the paralyzed, the senile, the "unable" were the few populations excluded. 

And then what happened?

Accounts differ. Volatile and passionate arguments erupt when the topic is explored.

This was long before Resident Telepathic Implants (RTIs) liberated us from the burden of tapping fingers or dictating texts (often not corrected for erroneous "predictive" spellings. This was long before we collectively shucked our devices with all their accoutrements (cases, chargers, USBs, blocks, screen protectors). All of that gone.

We were bereft.

We were lonely.

We didn't know what to do with ourselves, or each other.

Solar Flare Apocalyptic Eruption IV (SFAE4) was a turning point. There's a rare consensus on that. With no electrical power grid, so-called networks became useless and antiquated. The sun was rude in its ruthless vaporization of Modern Life.

But what were we to do? Whom were we to blame?

Those were the days, weren't they? Those were the days, my friends.